


I Found you, and Loved you, Again

by lumosity (strawberry_bee)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Reincarnation AU, aziraphale dies like all the time bc he's human so like yknow how it is, good omens - Freeform, hell wins and crowley has to suffer, immortal crowley, mortal aziraphale, re-uploaded bc I changed my mind and like it actually so sorry lads
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-06-30 09:49:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19850644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberry_bee/pseuds/lumosity
Summary: I raised the question about what would happen if Hell won and they decided to sentence Crowley to an eternity of torture that wasn't an easy out like holy water. This fic is the answer.Updates on Friday  <3Title from Mary Oliver's "Hummingbirds"I went to China,I went to Prague;I died, and was born in the spring;I found you, and loved you, again,_________________________________“I’m not a strong believer in kissing someone that is drunk,” Aziraphale announced. Crowley laughed, the first time in a long while as far as he could remember.“What?” Aziraphale said defensively, pulling away. Crowley lifted his head out of his lap, twisting around to smirk at Aziraphale.“All the wicked deeds in the world, and yet here you are,” He said.“Yes. Here I am, and I intend to keep away from such wicked acts,” Aziraphale said defensively.





	1. Rome

The sun beat down as it always did, turning Crowley’s skin into flame as he worked underneath the toiling archway of the Roman gateway. His job, officially, was to herd the goats. Unofficially, if he so much as let one slip away, he was to have hot pincers pressed against each section of his skin until his voice gave out from begging for mercy. 

The fact that Hell had won was not something that Crowley was ever going to be allowed to forget as long as they had fun with torturing him. Oh, the Dukes of Hell and even Lucifer himself, the great bastard, had decided that Earth really was a pretty solid idea. Not only was Crowley being tortured, but he was going to be tortured in the very place that he loved the most.

Plus, it only made sense to keep Hell empty while they eternally celebrated and worked their way through the Heavenly Host as it were. 

The only difference, as far as Crowley was concerned, was that he was now deeply susceptible to disease. He did not look forward to the malaria endemic that was sure to arrive any day now, did not even dare think of the black plague looming just ahead. Not that anything would ever kill him. Instead, he would feel himself slowly wilt away, and just as any normal human body would give out, he would be perfectly whole again come morning. 

And so it went. 

Crowley never really wanted to die, of course. Not until now, anyways. Except there was no more holy water. Lord Beelzebub had taken her sweet time ensuring that he knew that every loophole that existed before no longer did. 

Crowley’s stomach growled uncomfortably. He sighed. Gone were the days that he could go eons without eating, another fun gimmick that Hastur had recommended. The goats rambled before him, bleating pitifully as they dodged the people milling about the entrance. The guards were taking their time, most likely on a power trip. Crowley beat his staff against the dusty earth, trying not to lose his temper. 

“Excuse me, sir, you look rather thirsty,” an eerily familiar voice interrupted. Crowley cocked his head to the side, not even bothering to look over. 

“What was the hint, my miserable stature?” Crowley snapped. The voice cleared its throat. Crowley hoped that whoever it was would just go away. 

“No. Well, yes, but I was just wanting to be a good Samaritan,” the voice said. Crowley huffed, rounding on the so called ‘good Samaritan’. He was lost in his tracks, all thoughts of misery flown out of his head along with the addition of the young man’s hopeful expression. 

He would’ve known those blue eyes anywhere. The slight worry at the turn of a polite smile. Aziraphale. 

“Z-zira?” Crowley managed, working overtime. Was there a secret army of angels? Was this Aziraphale trying to slip through the ranks and save him? Crowley felt his heart, his very human heart, soar with hope. Confusion crossed the young man’s face.

“Uhm. No, I don’t know any Zira, but I do go by Aziraphale,” he said, beaming brightly. He extended the waterskin, glancing away nervously as if someone at any moment was going to scold him for being so close to a goat herder. 

“Thanks,” Crowley said, snatching the skin. He drank ravenously, the water spilling down his throat and underneath his ratty robe. 

I’m not supposed to be mingling amongst the common folk. Not that you’re common. I mean. Anyways, I’m a part of my father’s caravan up the way, and we were taking a while so I wanted to mingle while I could,” Aziraphale rambled. Crowley quirked an eyebrow. So Aziraphale had a cover story for any helions potentially listening in. 

“Not keen on going behind father dearest back?” Crowley quipped. He handed the waterskin back, turning to check that all the goats were accounted for. 

“He’s not all that bad really, for a consul,” Aziraphale allowed. “We’re only here for a short time, so I’m trying to make the best of it.” 

“Yes, what a keen place this city is,” Crowley grouched. What he didn’t bother to mention is that it wouldn’t even be remembered by history, it was that nonsequential. He wondered what the whole point of this conversation was. It didn't help to get attached to mortals. Sometimes they could be fun, but that was before. A majority of himself may believe that this was the real Aziraphale, but he did not stay an angel long enough to be so blindly optimistic. 

“I didn’t catch your name,” Aziraphale said.

“Anthony. Anthony Crowley,” Crowley said. 

“Antony, after the Mark Antony?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Yup. Died with Cleopatra as they say,” Crowley said, losing interest. So it wasn’t Aziraphale. He would have to congratulate himself later for not falling into the trap. It was like Hell to keep testing him, even though he always failed and that meant torture no matter which way you sliced it.

“I’ll see you around, Antony. I’ll just have to follow the sound of the goats to find you, after all,” He said, waving goodbye awkwardly before hurrying forth to the front of the line. Crowley glared after him. He was already unjustifiably angry with the mortal. A goat bumped into his leg, and he nudged it away forcefully. It looked at him accusingly through unintelligent eyes before it wandered away. 

Once Aziraphale’s lovely band of consuls had gotten through, the gates opened up more easily for the rest. Crowley was able to get in with little to no trouble. He navigated the streets full of human waste with ease, guiding the goats to the marketplace. The man that he worked under, some suitably brutish creature that was always quick with a closed fist, could not find anything to be angered by. With a grunt, he shoved a coin into Crowley’s hand as he took over the selling of the goats. 

With his meager earnings, Crowley went to get solidly drunk so that hopefully he might not wake to see the morning. It hadn’t worked yet, but Crowley was always a little hopeful when it came to some lapse of eternal torment. 

Crowley was allowed to sleep, it was true. But with the sleep came the nightmares. The ones that included watching Aziraphale fall under a siege, Crowley just out of reach. He generally woke up screaming. Sometimes he woke up and couldn’t move, and that was always the worst deal of the lot. At least screaming got some of the pain out. 

Four cups in, and possibly three more pilfered from forgotten clay cups around him, Crowley was in no state to be confronted by the consul’s son from earlier. 

“Crowley!” He called delightedly, clapping Crowley on the back. Crowley snaked an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders, pulling him close for a drunkard’s attempt at a hug. Aziraphale smelled like himself. That is, like the first bloom of flowers in the garden of Eden. Crowley flinched away. No. It wasn’t the angel. 

“Friendlier now that you’ve got some wine, eh? Not to worry, I can be the same way from time to time,” Aziraphale said amiably, leaning against the wall with Crowley. Crowley watched the man wearily from out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t know how to go about any of it. It could be coincidental. It could be purely on purpose as well. 

“Eugh, I must say, I’ve had better,” Aziraphale said a moment later, making a face. He handed the drink to Crowley. Crowley took it automatically, used to a millenium upon millenium of finishing the unsweet drinks that were not to Aziraphale’s tastes. He felt that damnable hope in his chest again. Maybe it was Aziraphale. This was a good hint as any. And he was going to be the only one who knew this specific quirk anyhow. 

“It must be hard, living below your means,” Crowley teased, finishing off the drink. He let it clatter to the floor beside him, not one to care much about being neat. Not when he knew who was in charge now.

“I do  _ try  _ to mingle amongst the people,” Aziraphale said huffily. 

“Yes, you look positively inconspicuous in your gilded sandals,” Crowley snapped back for old times sake. 

“Quiet, no one pays attention to footwear these days,” Aziraphale said. Crowley stared at him incredulously. A majority of the population, including himself, went without footwear. The angel, or maybe angel anyways, looked completely ignorant of said facts. 

“D’you want to look at the stars?” Crowley asked instead. Aziraphale hesitated for a moment, but nodded, cheeks flushed. Crowley did not know exactly what he was getting himself into. But Aziraphale’s hand in his was enough for him to do anything reckless for the sake of having him by his side once more. 

They made their way together outside of the city’s high brick and mud walls. Down the road they went and into the underbrush, where Crowley plopped down unceremoniously in the sand. Aziraphale sat down more primly, folding his hands in his lap as he craned his head upwards. Crowley watched him instead of the sky. The sky would always be there. He wondered if this would be the moment when Aziraphale would drop the whole act. 

“They’re really beautiful, the stars. My father is so preoccupied with what happens here that he doesn’t even take the time to realize that whatever happens to him or me, the stars won't respond to any of it,” Aziraphale said lightly. 

“Ah, that’s just the mortal conundrum. Overarching plans don’t work much when you can die of a mosquito bite,” Crowley said, speaking away Aziraphale’s worries. 

“What do you mean, mortal?” Aziraphale asked gently. Crowley hated himself for it, but he leaned over and rested his head in Aziraphale’s lap. The young man hesitated, before carding his fingers through Crowley’s hair. Crowley focused on the stars.

“I mean that all this will be gone soon. Everything goes, eventually. And then it returns and returns and returns,” He said, spinning his finger lazily, rotating the finger with every return uttered. 

“Like a wheel?” Aziraphale encouraged, still playing with Crowley’s hair.

“Yeah. Like a wheel, except there’s no stopping ‘cause my side won and now I get to watch the world I loved so much stumble into brimstone every six thousand years,” Crowley said. What he wanted to say was that  _ now I’m alone.  _ What he really felt was that  _ you used to be by my side, through it all. And now you’re not. _

“Oh, well, it can’t be all that bad, can it?” Aziraphale said gently. Crowley snorted. 

“I mean, it sounds rather dreadful, and I know you’re just very drunk and probably high on some rotten goat milk as well, but sometimes life is worth living for moments like these,” Aziraphale said. Crowley felt Aziraphale’s hand move from his hair, a moment later the angel’s thumb pressed lightly against Crowley’s lips. 

“Yeah, maybe it is,” Crowley admitted. He waited for the legions of Hell to drag him down again. But instead his heart thudded loudly in his chest, reminding him that he was alive and here was the man he was helplessly in love with. At some point Crowley had given up on being suspicious of Aziraphale. Hadn’t that always been the case? 

Aziraphale drew his thumb away, and instead gently patted Crowley’s cheek with the palm of his hand. 

“I’m not a strong believer in kissing someone that is drunk,” Aziraphale announced. Crowley laughed, the first time in a long while as far as he could remember. 

“What?” Aziraphale said defensively, pulling away. Crowley lifted his head out of his lap, twisting around to smirk at Aziraphale. 

“All the wicked deeds in the world, and yet here you are,” He said. 

“Yes. Here I am, and I intend to keep away from such wicked acts,” Aziraphale said defensively. 

“Well, you can prevent a wicked deed by helping me back home,” Crowley said, standing unsteadily. Aziraphale obediently took him under his arm, guiding him back to the lights of civilization. 

The next time they ran into each other, Crowley was trying to pin a goat that had broken it’s leg. The poor thing bleated loudly as Crowley tried to straighten the crooked limb. It struck out blindly, getting Crowley in the side of the head. He fell back, cursing everything that could come to his scattered mind. 

“Need some help?” Aziraphale called, rushing over. Crowley looked up, confused as to why the consul’s son had broken away from the group of politicians sons to help him. Crowley felt that nagging doubt in his chest again. There was no way that Aziraphale would risk losing face when anyone around them could drag Aziraphale down with such a small act of mercy. 

“I got it,” Crowley muttered as Aziraphale broke away to reign in the goat. 

“I wasn’t doing much anyhow,” Aziraphale said brightly, holding the goat by the neck. The stressed out creature bleated loudly, and Aziraphale started to coo to it. The goat started to calm down, looking at Crowley as if to say  _ all I needed was a kind word.  _

Crowley quickly bandaged up the goat while it remained calm. A moment later Aziraphale released the goat, and it limped gleefully back to the small group that were watching Crowley warily against the door of someone’s house. 

“Thanks for the help,” Crowley said grudgingly, standing up. He brushed away the dirt on his clothes, giving himself a slightly less dusty appearance. 

“Not to worry, it was my pleasure,” Aziraphale said lightly. Crowley glanced at the others who looked on in mild confusion and even suspicion. 

“Well, better not ruin your good image and all that,” Crowley said, reaching for his staff against the wall. 

“Oh, I don’t care what they think,” Aziraphale said. 

“You might not, but your father will,” Crowley said, heading towards his herd. Infuriatingly, Aziraphale kept up.

“He’s always getting onto me for my good intentions. I don’t listen to him much anymore,” Aziraphale said. 

“He’s only looking out for you,” Crowley said. He clucked his tongue at the goats, and they began to meander towards their soon-to-be slaughter pen. He was not looking forward to the argument with the butcher about the hurt goat. His boss had threatened him with the whip if he didn’t come back with the full promised price. Plus, it wasn’t like he had the gift of his demonic wiles any longer either. Ligur had seen to that. 

“I wanted to tell you where my estate was, if you ever wanted to visit,” Aziraphale said.

“And get me killed? Angel, if you hadn’t noticed, I look like a common cutpurse at best,” Crowley said. He desperately missed Aziraphale, but definitely not the blind optimism that radiated off of him in waves. To Aziraphale’s credit, he only hesitated for half of a second. Perhaps at the strange term of endearment. Angels were not exactly a widespread notion at the current point in history, but the cadence of Crowley’s voice highlighted it as something only to be said for a specific sort of individual. 

“Still, I insist. You need to try good wine at least once in your life. And my father will want to know about the goat herder that I keep pestering all the time,” Aziraphale said. Crowley sighed. Tenacity was always going to be apart of Aziraphale. 

“I won’t promise anything, but you can tell me,” Crowley allowed. He wondered when Aziraphale turned into the one doing all of the tempting. He listened carefully to the instructions, and he was memorizing them long after Aziraphale had taken his leave. Thoughts of the gentle-mannered consul’s son were forgotten over the rage of the butcher, on the other hand. Cruelty was something Crowley could deal with much better. 

Some days later, when Crowley had the day off because his boss was down with the chills--malaria, actually--and he didn’t have the strength to even order Crowley around. So he found himself lingering around the temporary estate of Aziraphale’s. He tried to look like he had been invited, but even the servants looked like they weren’t buying it. Eventually one of them must have taken pity on Crowley, for Aziraphale appeared around the corner. He hurried over, his hands full of a bottle of wine and a cup.

“We’ll have to share, the cook wouldn’t let me take more than one,” Aziraphale said with all the confidence of someone who never thought to steal something from the kitchens while the cook’s back was turned. 

“It’s better to share anyways, brotherhood and all that,” Crowley said dryly. Together they found the shade of an olive tree to sit under, where they shared the wine in some comfortable silence. 

“You know, you’re very familiar,” Aziraphale said, breath stinking of the sweet wine. 

“Oh? I guess I look like many goat herders,” Crowley allowed. Aziraphale snorted, nudging Crowley’s shoulder clumsily. 

“No! I mean that you just seem like someone I’ve known before,” Aziraphale said. Crowley felt that familiar ache in his chest. Suddenly he wished he was sober. 

“I have a common face,” Crowley dodged. 

“Say whatever you like, but I feel like we fit together quite nicely,” Aziraphale said, resting his head against the bark of the tree. Crowley took the opportunity to watch Aziraphale while he had his eyes closed. There were the same old blonde eyelashes against his cheeks, the one little drop of sunlight that formed a mole at the corner of his eye. Crowley wished to kiss his cheek only once. An apology for not losing. For not giving Aziraphale an eternity of listening to celestial harmonies. 

In a flash Aziraphale’s eyes found his, and Crowley looked away.

“My friends told me that your eyes are yellow because you were a fever victim,” Aziraphale said, a little too casual for it to be anything but. 

“No, I’m just damned,” Crowley said. He found the truth to be more assuring. 

“Hm,” Aziraphale said, clearly not comforted by the same thing. 

“I’m worried about the fever that is killing people about the city. I didn’t want to ruin today, since you were so kind to see me, but my father is considering leaving early,” Aziraphale said.

“Oh, that would be wise,” Crowley said. There was no point in reading into anything. Maybe Aziraphale was just giving him a heads up so he wouldn’t be jailed by the next tennants for looking like a leper near the grounds. 

“Would you go with us? I don’t have any goats, but I could get some,” Aziraphale offered. Crowley laughed. 

“No, angel, that would not work. Your future is in politics. You can’t have a leper shadowing you, Not good for the gossip,” Crowley shook his head. 

“I dont  _ want  _ to be in politics. I want to meet more people like you, people who matter. Before you, life has felt like one endless stream of nothing. You mean something to me, Crowley, I just can’t put my finger on it,” Aziraphale said. 

“It’s just infatuation,” Crowley allowed. He stood up abruptly, albeit a little unsteadily. Another downside to being tortured was that he now had to deal with hangovers. 

“No, it’s not that,” Aziraphale said, stumbling up after him. He grabbed Crowley’s hand, entwining it in both of his. Crowley stared numbly at their hands, trying to not read into it. Damn it all. He still loved Aziraphale after all this time. 

“I have never been one to believe the stories about true unions between man and woman, but with you, I can start to see why,” Aziraphale was saying. Crowley yanked his hand away. No. Not this. He looked around wildly. He expected hellhounds. He wanted flaming swords. He was even ready to have his toenails ripped out one by one. Anything but this. 

But all that answered was the high whine of a mosquito. And Aziraphale was saying something. He couldn't remember what, but he knew that whatever it was made him kiss him underneath the olive tree. 

“You shouldn’t kiss people drunk,” Aziraphale said dazedly. 

“I’m too much of a bastard,” Crowley said, although he did have the ability to look contrite nevertheless. 

“I forgive you this time,” Aziraphale said, and then kissed him sweetly. “There, now we’re even.”

“I must be going. Goats to watch,” Crowley said thickly. If he stayed any longer, who knew what other things he may end up doing to the sweet-faced man in front of him. 

“Yes. Yes of course. Visit soon, alright?” Aziraphale didn’t quite let go of Crowley’s hand until he plucked a low-hanging bough from the tree. He laced the crown of leaves about Crowley’s hair, before letting him go at last.

Afterwards, Crowley let the leaves stay even as they started to wilt. 

He stayed away from the estate for a week, wary of the ramifications Aziraphale could have if spotted with him. Roman consuls always had their side relationships with other men of course, but generally they were with men of higher position. Crowley cursed the position he was in, knowing that it was hell’s doing of course. 

It came as a shock to him when one of the servants approached him in the marketplace, looking rather fearful of being spotted. 

“My good sir, the consul’s son is ill and wished me to bring you this,” The harried lady said, pushing a letter into Crowley’s hand. Crowley took it, thanking the woman. Belatedly, he wondered why on earth Aziraphale would assume he’d be capable of reading such a note, but he was already tearing it open. 

What he found nearly brought him to his knees. 

Crowley was sorely tempted to charge into the estate, guards be damned, just to be by Aziraphale’s side. But that wouldn’t do. Instead, taking some of the goats from his late boss’s herd, he marched his way to the estate and used all the door-to-door salesman skills he had learned over the years in Hell. When he was in Hell’s favor, anyway. 

The cook, who looked rather scared himself, did not put up much of a fight. Goats were becoming scarce as the fever swept the town and farmer’s wisely gave the place a wide berth. Crowley only had to wait long enough for the cook to go select the best of the herd. He darted into the estate. He kept to the shadows, leaning heavily on his years of experience of lurking as a former demon to not be noticed. Crowley went to where the servants avoided, and assuredly enough he found the room that Aziraphale was in.

Aziraphale was dying. It was in the air, it was in the light. Crowley blanched, feet unwittingly nearing the sickbed. He kneeled beside Aziraphale, reaching out to rest a hand against Aziraphale’s burning cheek. The angel stirred, eyes slitting open briefly. 

“Anthony, you came,” Aziraphale murmured. 

“Of course I did,” Crowley said, smiling despite himself. 

“I dreamed that we had this bread that was as sweet as strawberries, you were wearing these shades and teasing me. Crepes, I think they were called,” Aziraphale said, voice hoarse. 

“Yes, yes. The reign of terror,” Crowley said, tears streaming down his cheeks. He didn’t want to cry. It was him. It was Aziraphale. He wanted to cry and scream and tear his hair out. Because here he was, after all this time. Lovingly, purely, Aziraphale. 

“I told you we knew each other,” Aziraphale said, smiling. Crowley nodded numbly. A woman screamed behind him, and Crowley couldn’t be bothered to care. 

“You don’t have long, the guards will have you,” Aziraphale said, fear flashing in his eyes. He struggled to sit up, but Crowley gently pushed him back down again. 

“Angel, please, tell me when you’ll return to me,” Crowley said, trembling. Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered, the fever taking its toll. 

“I don’t know, all I know is that you’re here. You’ll keep me safe Crowley, you can talk to them and help me. I could be demonic if they needed me to be. Just as long as I’m with you,” Aziraphale sighed, reaching out to squeeze Crowley’s hand. 

The guards rushed into the room, grabbing Crowley before he could think to even lunge onto the bed to cover Aziraphale from them. The last thing he saw before they wrenched him away around the corner was his angel’s panic stricken face.

It would’ve been a kindness if they had murdered him then and there. At least in that fashion he would have to wait a few days until the powers that be below could sum up the desire to give him another mortal frame. Instead, they merely tossed him out, amongst the dirt and heaps of garbage that followed civilization wherever it went. 

The next few days he haunted the estate, hoping for some sort of hint as to what was occurring within. All he knew was that there was a countless number of messengers. He talked himself into hearing the wails of mourning, he talked himself out with the simple answer of the wind. Either way the answer was dredged up at last by the solemn procession of mourners that flocked to the house one fair morning. 

Without Aziraphale, Crowley was lost. The one thing that he did have, unfortunately, was time. He spent long hours torturing himself, wondering if Aziraphale was just a fluke, if it was a one-off joke that he was the butt of the punchline. If quizzed on the off-chance of being able to return the world to its former state on the ensuing years, Crowley would miserably fail every single history related question. 

He would get the initial question though.

Q: Who is the biggest sucker in the entire existence of the universe?

A: Crowley


	2. The Hagia Sofia

But as most things happen, time moved on and Crowley was dragged miserably along behind it. After the goats he had a brief stint in the Roman army. After the fall of Rome, he headed to the East. If he was going to be spending an entire immortal life alone, he might as well visit all the old haunts of before. 

One such thing was the Hagia Safia. A gorgeous monument that elevated humanity just a little bit closer to divinity. Aziraphale, Crowley remembered, was extremely disappointed to not be in the city during the time of the construction. It was something that Aziraphale had never stopped complaining about, right up there with the destruction of the Library of Alexandria. 

He did not know how to continue living without Aziraphale by his side, so he decided that if he was going to be tortured by his absence, he would honor him in any way he could. Probably with less goat shit involved, and more miracles added on for good measure would’ve been the preferred way. But Crowley would get there in his angel’s name no matter the cost. 

Most cities during that time were generally terrible. As Crowley made his way through the streets he tried his best not to dream wistfully of London’s modern plumbing before Armageddon. He tried his best not to think about such things too loudly. The last time he had, the concept of clean drinking water had been entirely done with by Hell. He was really trying not to screw things up for the other damned souls of humanity just because they were forced to be punished along with him. 

“Excuse me, sir, could you point me towards the construction of the...ah, Hagia Safia?” Crowley asked, drawing the attention of a flustered tanner. The tanner surveyed Crowley’s blue robes long enough for his face to contort into disgust.

“Hagia-sah-what?” The man said, and spit at Crowley’s feet for good measure before storming off 

“Thanks,” Crowley said glumly. He wondered what the hatred was over the color. He shrugged to himself, following the crowds of people with their greens and blues as they headed towards the center of the city. Maybe they were unveiling the thing by now. He tried to remember if it was some sort of statue commemorating the no-longer-powers-above or a big flashy architectural building. He really should’ve paid better attention to whenever Aziraphale rambled on about the place. 

The people in front began to close in together en masse. Crowley began to shift through the bodies, doubt starting to fill his mind. Never before had he seen such excitement over any sort of stupid building. Even amusement park openings were a more somber affair than this. Crowley ignored the elbows in his side, reminding himself that there was no point in elbowing back. Not when he could very much suffer the consequences. At last he burst forth to the front unexpectedly. He pinwheeled his arms comically, watching with wide eyes as a chariot bore down on him.

“Hey! Careful!” A man shouted, grabbing Crowley by the neck and yanking him backwards. Crowley latched onto the man, staring in horror and awe as the chariot swung around the track. The crowd let out loud boos. “Let the blue be trampled!” an angry voice shouted in the back. 

“You chose a bad day to wear blue,” The man said, patting at Crowley’s back lightly. Crowley remembered himself and pulled back, greeted yet again with that overly familiar face.

“It was only a suggestion. I’m not suggesting  _ treason,”  _ Aziraphale said nervously, clasping his hands together in front of him. On his arm was a green sash, mitigating what he had just said. 

“Aziraphale?” Crowley managed. 

“I’m mostly called Zira, but yes. How did you…?” Aziraphale started, eyebrows knitting together in concern. 

“Your reputation precedes you. Your ah...transcripts, or whatever,” Crowley said, craning his head around the faceless mob. He was hoping for a trail of sulphur. Boiling earth. Something to signify that Aziraphale was being dropped off again to be yet another shiny toy to torture Crowley with. 

“Oh, well, that’s very kind. I’ve only been a scribe for a short time now but my father always said I would be good at it,” Aziraphale rambled, twisting his hands together. Crowley hesitated for half a heartbeat, realizing that the tone of the crowd suddenly mattered so much more now that he had someone he was worried about. 

“I don’t like the state of the crowd, Let’s step back a little bit,” Crowley suggested. He grabbed Aziraphale’s hand, pulling him back. 

“Excuse me, I know I just saved your life but that does not mean you can drag me wherever you please,” Aziraphale said indignantly, wrenching his hand away. Another enraged roar came from the crowd, this time the jeers even more aggressive. Crowley gave Aziraphale a panicked look. Here he was again, and now he was going to see him torn apart by the very humans around them that Aziraphale had originally loved so much. 

“You look as if you’ve seen the devil just behind us,” Aziraphale said, worry overtaking his features as he studied Crowley. Crowley made a face. 

“Right, sure, call it a vision but we need to go  _ now,”  _ Crowley insisted. Whatever was coming was not going to be good, and suddenly he got the inkling that perhaps Heaven had kept Aziraphale away from Constantinople for a reason. 

“I feel absolutely absurd following someone I just met. How do I know you’re not an agent of the emperor?” Aziraphale rambled as Crowley carved a path through the people. They easily closed right back around them, ready to make up for the two interlopers without a moment’s hesitation. 

“I wouldn’t even know their names if you asked,” Crowley grumbled. He spotted a lovely spired building and made a beeline for that. 

“A foreigner? Well, I guess it would be nice to see the fall of the reign of the emperor,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully. He kept apace with Crowley once they broke free of the crowds. Crowley could feel the anger chasing his heels, and a part of him wondered if it was Hell trying to drag him back into his next line of torture. 

“This place looks like the exact opposite of where you would want to be during a riot,” Crowley said. He could admire the gilded artwork later when he didn’t have to worry about the mortality of Aziraphale. 

“No, I suppose not,” Aziraphale said, laughing lightly. Crowley started, a smile coming to him unbidden. He hadn’t known how much he had missed that musical sound. He spotted a cross at the far end of the church, and briefly wondered why he was not burning up. All thoughts about the fact that demons could interlope in churches flashed out of his mind the second he heard a violent crash outside. 

“We need to get out of here, out of the city,” Crowley said, skin crawling. He grabbed Aziraphale’s hand again, this time noticing just how calloused it was. Not for the first time he wondered if it was fair to think of Aziraphale as who he was before. Years ago he had acted like he knew what had happened, but perhaps this time they had genuinely succeeded in wiping his mind. Crowley knew 

It was no matter, they had more important things to worry about. They darted past the altar and into the back rooms. Crowley shoved aside decorated priests, dancing around those who made an effort to move out of the way. They burst out of the side archway, coming out into a world of flame. 

“Your kind works fast,” Crowley groaned. Although, given the current state of power, it was really his people working at maximum speed instead. Just a moment ago the world had been right as rain. Well. About as right as it was when the people rose up against the people in power. Which was to say, rather good until it was all reinstated with yet another monarchical dictatorship. 

“Oh dear, my shop,” Aziraphale said nervously. 

“Too late, in ash, kaboom. Clay tablets right? Cracked in the heat,” Crowley said shortly, yanking Aziraphale along again. He didn’t want to freak out Aziraphale by bringing up paper or whatever sort of technology he wasn’t aware of as of yet. He made that mistake exactly once, and unfortunately both he and the human suffered for it. 

“You know, I’m beginning to think you’re a guardian angel,” Aziraphale said, huffing as he kept up with Crowley’s quick pace. Crowley nearly skidded to a halt, if that didn’t mean they would end up losing precious oxygen.

“Far from it, angel,” Crowley said instead. He was trying desperately to remember any history lessons that Aziraphale had given him before the end of the world. Most of them were focused on jogging Crowley’s memory about an earlier rant that Aziraphale had gone through. But there wasn’t any context clues for a thrice removed rant in the  _ 1600’s.  _

On the bright side, he didn’t need to remember much when it came to angry humans. They generally destroyed everything around them. It was just that he had to be wary about the people in charge. It was the general consensus that a ruler would rather rule over a decimated population than one full to the brim with political opinions.

“I never caught your name, I think it would be important to know given that we are fleeing the city together,” Aziraphale gasped. 

“Crowley. Anthony J. Crowley,” Crowley said. The smoke was starting to get to him, which was not good at all. He began to look around for a well, the sanitary conditions of it be damned. 

“Hm, sounds familiar,” Aziraphale said. Crowley ignored his somersaulting heart. Instead he chose in favor of keeping the two of them alive for the next couple of hours. He spotted a common well and pulled Aziraphale towards it. He let go of his hand, taking the time to rip away some of the fabric of his robes. He drenched both cloths in the water, handing Aziraphale his own cloth as he tied the other around his head so it covered his nose and mouth. 

“You must have done this before,” Aziraphale said, tying his own on. Crowley winked at him, before leading the charge to the city’s gates. They were able to just stay ahead of the mob of people, being one of the few people who had the wise sense to steer clear of the burning city and wait it out in the surrounding hillsides. 

“Please, I must rest,” Aziraphale gasped, tearing away the soot-soaked cloth from his face as he collapsed into the sparsh desert grass. Crowley plopped down beside him, ripping his own cloth off as well. Crowley listened to Aziraphale’s breathing start to settle, trying to memorize every second of this stolen moment together. He racked his mind for some sort of clue as to whether or not there were any disease related outbreaks bound to happen. 

“Everything I’ve ever known,” Aziraphale said faintly. Crowley shook his head irritably, brushing off the complaint. It was just like him to worry about his bookshop burning down--

Well. Wasn’t it like Hell to enjoy some irony? Logically he knew that Aziraphale was human, and even if he did decide to stick with Crowley for the time being, he was sure to die anyways. Crowley liked to hide the truth from himself that he was secretly an optimist, but even in such a situation he knew that all hope would be lost. Aziraphale was saying something again, but Crowley didn’t catch it. Only when Aziraphale stood again did Crowley finally bring his attention back to his immediate surroundings. 

“W-wait, you can’t go anywhere, you’ll die,” Crowley said, stumbling to his feet.

“I appreciate your kindness, I do, but Crowley that is my  _ home.  _ And my home is burning to the ground right now,” Aziraphale said, wringing his hands nervously. Crowley felt a second part of himself from a different lifetime, deja vu to an event that had already happened and was yet to come. 

“But we could run away together,” Crowley said softly.

“That’s very kind, and I know that I owe you my life for saving me, but who am I without my parchment, my shop, my patrons?” Aziraphale said, the corners of his eyes crinkling up in the way they always did when Aziraphale tried to explain a self-sacrificing motive of his before he did it. 

“You’re you, you’re Aziraphale,” Crowley said, hugging himself. This was not right. He wasn’t supposed to willingly leave Crowley. Aziraphale only gave him a smile, and he reached into his robes before producing a small roll of parchment with his name engraved on the top in an embossed seal. 

“Crowley, if we ever meet again, be sure to give me this. I will never forget the man who saved my life,” Aziraphale said. Crowley stared at the seal numbly. Yes, in greek there was Aziraphale’s name, and some form of description that passed for an address in the Byzantine empire. Belatedly, he hoped that Aziraphale had ignored his bit about clay tablets. 

“Please, I have to go, I have to at least try and save the others like you’ve saved me,” Aziraphale said, grabbing Crowley’s hand and pushing the scroll into his hand before turning away. Crowley stared at the small stone for some time, fear choking his thoughts. Just as the idea struck him, he was already sprinting after Aziraphale, reaching out to grab him by the shoulder and rip him around. 

“He-!” Aziraphale said, startled.

“I cash in the life debt,” Crowley gasped, “you come with me, we leave, and you start a new life with me somewhere new.” 

Aziraphale studied him, shock melting into grim determination. 

“My life is only worth one of the civilians currently fighting for their freedom or running from their neighbors who want to burn them alive. Your selfishness is beyond compare,” Aziraphale said, wrenching his shoulder away. 

“Do you dare fail to listen to the dem-the man who saved your life?” Crowley cried. Aziraphale only shook his head. 

“You’re right. I should not listen to the demon who tried to tempt me away from saving my own,” Aziraphale said, his gaze turned cold. Crowley swallowed thickly, tried to remember a time that the old Aziraphale had looked at him in such a way. No. Never. Not even when he was being a proper menace. 

“Fine, what use is your life to me anyways if you throw it away,” Crowley said, chucking the stone at the wall of the city. A chip fell along with it, which should’ve pleased him that he could at least still destroy things if he couldn’t keep anything alive. 

“Goodbye, foul creature. May we never cross paths again,” Aziraphale said stiffly, darting back into the city to what would most likely be his ruin at the mercy of the city’s soldiers. Crowley watched him go. What a cruel joke to play on him, to give a bastard the face of his love twice and rip him away again and again. Crowley strode over to the wall, ignoring the screaming masses pouring past him. He spent some time searching for the slate of rock, ignoring the murder about him as the army made their way through the city, systematically murdering the rioters both inside and out. 

Hell must have considered what Aziraphale had done as punishment enough. Crowley was able to finally find the battered scroll amongst the rubble, dusty yet unmistakable. In a hundred languages Crowley was able to read Aziraphale’s name. He had never forgotten a single translation. 

He stowed it away in what passed as a pocket for the times. He intended to keep it as a memento, a reminder not to seek Aziraphale out any longer. 

Simply put, Crowley had an easy time of avoiding Aziraphale. He simply had to catch a glimpse of the familiar face in the crowd and turn the other way. At first, he wondered how Hell would respond to such open rebellion, and in a way they gave their answer. Sometimes he would have to handle Aziraphale against his will. Whether his job was as a medieval doctor, or a farmer, inevitably that insufferable face would pop around the corner needing his assistance. 

For a change of pace Crowley fled to America. The colonies were exciting, the wars doubly so. Finally he was able to look at the fresh faced flowers and know that Aziraphale had never seen them. Except in Eden. But that didn’t count, since Eden was destroyed in the war to end all wars. He passed his time free as one could be with the demands of a body that endlessly required upkeep. 

Sometimes he would test his form. Fall from great heights. Pick a fight with a bear. But as the spring always came again, so did he. At some point, Crowley forgot the meaning of life, for even at war his heart did not speed up when faced with the enemy.

And he really was face to face with the enemy, when it came to tactical warfare in the 1700’s. So really, was it much of a shock when across the way, Aziraphale came into his life yet again decked up in a red coat outfit, looking for all the world pissed at the whole ordeal. Crowley hesitated for half a heartbeat upon seeing that familiar cast of blonde curls, the bright flush on his cheeks. 

Aziraphale on the other hand, hardly flinched. Crowley fell backwards onto the earth, watching one of his fellow soldiers step in his place to die. A flower, somehow untrampled, danced in his vision as his head swam. Belatedly he wondered if it was Aziraphale who shot him, he would be free. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally double the length, but then I was like 'wait I want to add an entire section to this chapter' that would've easily pushed this chapter from 5k words to 15k. Which, to say the least, would've been majorly jarring. On the bright side though the next chapter is mostly written! I just need to add that whole bit that is slowly breaking my heart. But alas, that is life.   
> drop me a message at femmeaziraphale <3


	3. Chapter 3

When Crowley woke up, he let out a string of curses that, deep in the depths of Hell, Lucifer blushed a little to hear of it. It wasn’t that he was in agony. Oh no, it was that he was still breathing, damn it all. With a groan he lifted his head, looking around for some sort of marker to get his bearings. 

To his left lay a man cocooned in a filthy bandage about his torso. Crowley made a face. He had forgotten that humans didn’t know about basic hygiene practices in hospitals yet. 

“Poor chap,” Crowley said softly, sitting up. He didn’t bother to look to his left, figuring it was just more of the same thing. He made to stand, freezing when a British guard entered the tent. It was quite comical really, how Aziraphale and him stared at each other, dumbfounded.

“B-but, I shot you in the  _ chest,”  _ Aziraphale spluttered. 

“Yeah, me? Not good at dying I’m afraid,” Crowley said, standing all the way. He moved past Aziraphale, patting him smartly on the head as he strode into the camp. It was just another backwater encampment on the outskirts of Brooklyn. He sighed. Well, it was good for him to walk every now and then. 

“Excuse me, you are a prisoner of the British empire,” Aziraphale said, chasing after him through the camp. 

“Not anymore! No chains, yeah?” Crowley said cheerily. He thought it funny that they made Aziraphale a soldier. Must’ve been running out of ideas if they were falling back on something like  _ that.  _

“Anthony J. Crowley, I order you to stop,” Aziraphale snapped. Crowley slowed down, letting the annoying human to grab him by the arm. 

“Found my name on the uniform? Not to worry if it’s familiar, I have a common name  _ and  _ face,” Crowley said, used to the same old song and dance. 

“No. No Crowley, it’s  _ me,  _ Aziraphale,” He said, a thoroughly puzzled expression on his face. Crowley hesitated. This was certainly different, if not frustrating. 

“What did we talk about in the bentley in 1967?” Crowley asked, lowering his voice. He didn’t want to be tortured in the off chance some British general overheard them. Who knew what those words meant to them, suspected codetalk or not. 

“W-we talked about holy water, and I told you that you went too fast for me,” Aziraphale said, relief flooding his expression. “It  _ is  _ you, isn’t it?” 

“This is some sort of trick, a joke,” Crowley said, stepping away from Aziraphale. He was able to get away from the angel with ease, given that Aziraphale was going through his own state of shock at the moment. 

“N-no, I mean, I know what happened if that’s what you mean. T-the war, Gabriel, oh,  _ God,  _ how we tried to save her,” Aziraphale moaned. Crowley looked around wildly. Thankfully everyone was still ignoring them, although he didn’t know how much longer he could wander around looking like he just fled the hospital tent. 

“C’mon, we need to go somewhere quiet,” Crowley said, taking Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale followed him, whispering things about angels long gone. Crowley didn’t want to break his heart further, but he hadn’t seen any sign of his old heavenly family in the aftermath. 

At last they came to the river, where it was roaring with all it’s frothy rage as a result of the spring floods. 

“No one will hear us here,” Crowley said, turning to Aziraphale. 

“My dear, I don’t know what to say,” Aziraphale said softly, having finally gone through the however many stages it took to realize that they were together at last. Crowley, unfortunately, was somewhere thirty paces back. Whatever that meant. But if anything, Crowley was never one to hesitate when he was still several leagues behind where his brain needed to be before acting. 

“Nothing at all, just a kiss is enough,” Crowley said, clasping Aziraphale in his arms as he kissed him. For a blessed moment, they were just two wartorn men beside the river clinging to each other. Crowley would’ve highly preferred clinging to Aziraphale until their bodies decayed at the riverside. Maybe that was their way out. 

At first, Crowley rarely slept. Initially Aziraphale figured that it was just some sort of punishment those bastards had thought up for him. He himself was capable of living off of a couple hours at a time given his stint in the British army, but by the third day he was convinced that Crowley was just as human as he was. 

Which begged the question. Would they eventually pass on together? To whatever stood as the afterlife given the state of who was in control at the moment. Aziraphale decided to put that specific question aside when Crowley nearly gave himself a concussion tripping over a hidden rock in the field they were stomping through. 

“With all this tripping and falling, you’re going to get hurt again and then where will we be?” Aziraphale said, wrapping his arm around Crowley’s waist. Crowley leaned against Aziraphale heavily, throwing his arm lazily across his shoulders. Aziraphale gave Crowley a reassuring squeeze, drinking in every moment that their skin touched. 

“S’fine. You shot me in the chest, I lived,” Crowley said, rubbing at an eye irritably as they started walking again. 

“I think that’s because they, ah, Beelzebub and the rest, wanted you alive for a specific reason. Let’s not give them the satisfaction of you suffering anymore while I’m here, yes?” Aziraphale suggested. He craned his head a little to see above the waving stalks of wheat. A grasshopper flung itself against his cheek, and Aziraphale tried to remind himself that every living thing was loved by God at some point. 

He was quickly finding that even his infinite patience had a limit. 

Just a few hundred yards ahead stood a copse of trees diligently set a few feet apart. Aziraphale decided that it had to be an orchard. Depending on the ripeness of the wheat, he guessed that the farmer and his family had made the wise decision to flee ahead of the encroaching armies. Both sides were keen on stealing from the land when it was available. Not that he could blame them, the army issued food was absolutely wretched once it got across the sea. He would have to harvest some of the fruit for them as they travelled, he decided. Crowley clearly wasn’t in the mindset to think much further than each step in front of him. 

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Crowley said, most likely for the fifteenth time. Aziraphale wanted to say a hundred different things. Most of them about how sorry he was for leaving him to walk the Earth alone while he got to have a fresh start over and over and over. He also wanted to apologize for any of his rather unkind behavior in the past. Not that he remembered any past lives, but he  _ had  _ shot Crowley this time--

They reached the shade of the trees at last, interrupting Aziraphale’s self-loathing thoughts. He gently eased Crowley onto the ground, letting him rest against the trunk. 

“You get some sleep, and that’s not a suggestion,” Aziraphale said brusquely. He wiped his hands off on his trousers, wishing that he had a fresh change of clothes. Such was army life. Not for him, never was really. 

“Yes, angel,” Crowley whispered sleepily. Aziraphale took off his coat, tucking it under Crowley’s chin and smoothing down the sides so it covered every inch of Crowley that he possibly could. Not for the first time was Aziraphale glad he was larger than Crowley. It made him feel productive,  _ proud  _ even when he saw Crowley cocooned in his clothes, safe and sound. Not that Crowley was very heavy as it was, and he was certain that Crowley had never been this frail before the world had ended. 

Aziraphale pressed a kiss to Crowley’s forehead, holding his hand until he drifted off. Aziraphale would have plenty of time later to drill him on all the things he had seen and witnessed without Aziraphale by his side. But for now, he was going to get started on the one thing he missed the most. Taking care of his dearest. 

Aziraphale walked several trees over, not wanting to disturb Crowley with his climbing. He eyed the boughs of the trees, studying which ones were worth the energy it would take to climb. Finally deciding upon one, he made quick work of climbing it. When Aziraphale felt like it, which wasn’t often if he could help it, he could move fast. Once comfortably resting on a stable nook in the tree, he took off his overshirt to make a sack. Deftly he began to pick the apples, tossing the ones that were rotten from insects deftly over his shoulder.

Even though it was autumn, he took great care not to disturb a long disused birds nest. He watched the squirrels below chase each other in long, looping circles. Aziraphale craned his head up towards the heavens. 

“Where are you?” Aziraphale whispered. He knew no answer was forthcoming, accepted it before he had even uttered the words. But how could she be gone? The squirrels still played, the apples still grew. He still loved Crowley. Everything in the world was innately right, but why? She was gone. By all means, everything should be a wretched existence. Aziraphale tried not to let his frustration grow. 

Carefully he slid down to the earth below, setting the impromptu sack of apples over his shoulder. One nice thing about being mortal was that his muscles ached in a deep, familiar way that felt innately domestic. Especially since he was providing now for Crowley. He was so caught up in his thoughts about Crowley that he nearly shouted when he turned and saw the figures before him. 

“G-Gabriel?” Aziraphale stuttered. The angel seemed to tower over him even further. But no, that wasn’t exactly right. Aziraphale forced his shoulders to relax, eyeing Crowley just a stone’s throw away from the hulking demon that was trying to appear like his old coworker. 

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel said, voice full of that sickening disappointment that had an underlying tone of ‘you will never, ever, impress me’. 

“I know you’re not him, so drop the pretense,” Aziraphale snapped. He adjusted his grip on the apples. In a pinch, he knew that any sort of heavy objects flung with enough force could knock anyone out.  _ Even _ if they were demonic. 

He was about to let his plan fly into action when Gabriel finally morphed grotesquely into something else. Aziraphale made an ‘ich’ noise as maggots flowed into a shorter, greasier form. 

“Ah, Crowley had always said you were a smart one, but we had begun to think it was just...affection getting in the way of reality,” Hastur said, a maggot dribbling from his lip before falling to the ground. Aziraphale resisted the urge to retch. 

“Why are you bringing me back to torture him?” Aziraphale said, trying with all his might not to look significantly in the direction of Crowley. 

“Some French bastard said it best, “love is reciprocal torture”,” Hastur giggled. Aziraphale made a face. There was something inherently wrong with a demon reciting Marcel Proust to him like he was too stupid to understand the reference. 

“So that’s the idea. Make us both suffer until the end of time? Might switch it up, eh? Make me the immortal one next round, see if Crowley can tolerate having his memory wiped over and over,” Aziraphale said. 

“While you make an excellent point, unfortunately this is a short term torture plan,” Hastur conceded. He sighed dramatically, clearly enjoying the fact that he knew something that Aziraphale didn’t. 

“I thought Hell won, don’t tell me there is residual armies of God hiding away somewhere?” Aziraphale tried his best to keep his voice level, but knew that his expression betrayed him nevertheless. 

“Naaah, you’re the last of ‘em I’m afraid. But all this beauty? It’s gotta cook from someone’s grace,” Hastur said brightly. The smirk on his face grew as realization slowly dawned on Aziraphale’s face.

“I-I’m fueling Crowley’s nightmare?” Aziraphale stuttered. Unconsciously he pressed his open hand against his chest, the approximate location of where his grace would be if he had it.

“More or less. We don’t exactly like you remembering that sorta thing given the pain incapitates ya,” Hastur shook his head tragically “we had a grand plan to start the ball rollin’ but you kept screamin’ so loud yer human mother drowned you for some peace and quiet,” 

_ God forgive her  _ Aziraphale thought. 

“‘Course since she did that, she’s gonna spend the rest of eternity almost drownin’ before it all resets,” Hastur continued. Aziraphale felt bile rise in his throat, disgusted at himself for feeling for the briefest of moments that justice had been served. After all, she had saved Crowley from a brief period of time that Aziraphale was a screaming, raving mess for feeling his grace being ripped out chunk by chunk. 

“So that’s it, then. If I just keep finding ways to, ah, cancel myself out, then he’ll be free?” Aziraphale asked. 

“If we felt inclined to allow you to remember this conversation, yes. You must remember though, he’s been with you in your many different lives. It would just be the same pain over and over, except you’d be doing all the torturing for us,” Hastur said, sounding for all the world like an impatient school teacher explaining a relatively simple problem. 

Aziraphale thought of the only clever thing he could.

“Damn you to Hell,” He said, with all the vitriol he could muster up. Hastur cackled and snapped his fingers. 

Aziraphale could only remember a sinister laugh, and a feeling of not wanting to forget something very, very important. He stared meaningfully at the empty space in front of him, but nothing was forthcoming. 

With a shrug, he made his way over to Crowley. He sat down beside him and rested his head against Crowley’s shoulder, digging an apple out of his overshirt. He wiped it off on his equally filthy army-issued trousers before taking a bite. 

Crowley stirred beside him, adjusting to nuzzle his face into Aziraphale’s shoulder. The demon gave a breathy sigh of contentment, mumbling something that sounded strikingly similar to Aziraphale. 

“I won’t leave you, I promise,” Aziraphale whispered.

They spend the autumn together in a trapper’s village on the outskirts of civilization. No one cared where the two had come from, didn’t give a damn that they wore army clothes that screamed deserters. As long as they filled the fur quotas, the French could care less. Crowley found that he had a better time catching the beavers and the various other desired creatures. Aziraphale was better suited to staying at their rented cabin. He spent most of his time skinning the animals and tanning them, his hands permanently stained from the harsh chemicals needed to do so. 

Each night Crowley would take Aziraphale’s rough hands into his own. He rubbed salve into the sores, and once they healed into calluses, he used a bit of their butter to try and soften up the skin. It hurt to have his love without one of his prides. Aziraphale let him do it, because Crowley suspected Aziraphale thought he was desperate for some semblance of normalcy. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly, on such a night. Crowley looked up from his ritual, catching Aziraphale’s eyes that were full of something deep and lovely. 

“Yes, angel?” Crowley asked, entwining his fingers within Aziraphale’s slippery ones. 

“When spring comes, when we have enough saved I mean, we should get a wagon and a team of oxen. Break away together and have a secluded spot just for us,” Aziraphale ventured. Crowley smiled wanly. 

“No matter where we go, they will know where we are,” Crowley said dryly. He had thought of it before, on one of the many nights he couldn’t sleep. 

“I don’t care about that. I care about us and this time we have together,” Aziraphale said, pulling one hand away to rest it on Crowley’s cheek. He leaned into the touch, closing his eyes. 

“I was thinking, we could have a cow and a calf maybe, for the milk, and maybe a bull to have our own herd. A couple of chickens too, if you’d let me,” Aziraphale continued. Crowley huffed. Chickens. They were so noisy in the village, and disgusting too. 

“Maybe not the chickens, geese would work just as well. I’ve been looking at the general store and they do have some seeds, I could ask him to order us some seeds for the spring. Anything you’d like, I know you love strawberries,” Aziraphale said. Crowley opened one eye, wondering how he knew.

“You complained the other day about wanting some strawberry jam,” Aziraphale explained, his expression soft. 

“Oh. D’you like strawberry jam?” Crowley asked, a bit guiltily. Aziraphale laughed.

“Yes, dearest, I do. It will remind me of you,” Aziraphale said. 

“Zira, I, I know it’s only been a few weeks, a month or two maybe,” Crowley began. He reached up, drawing Aziraphale’s hand away gently to hold it again between the two of his. He kept his eyes focused on their hands, ignoring the quick thud of his heart. 

“Yes, a short time for me, an eternity for you?” Aziraphale suggested gently. Crowley rubbed a thumb over the backside of Aziraphale’s. 

“This would be the first time we ever actually. Ah, lived together,” Crowley confessed. 

“I had to shoot you first to get you to stay still, I bet,” Aziraphale joked. 

“No, no. I was just insufferable. A fiend, one might say,” Crowley said, tilting his head up to look at Aziraphale. Aziraphale looked at him with that open expression, the kind that made him feel like he was about to misstep and hurt him. 

“Anyways, it’s getting colder, and, I was wondering, if we could,” Crowley took a deep breath. Why was everything so complicated? 

“Share a bed?” Aziraphale offered, raising an eyebrow. 

“Yes! Nothing else, not that I would want to, I mean, if you wanted to I--” Crowley rambled. Blessedly, Aziraphale leaned forward, giving him a soft kiss. 

“I have been waiting for you to kiss me again like you did beside the river all those weeks ago,” Aziraphale said in a scolding tone. Crowley huffed a laugh, head still spinning from the rush of giddiness coursing through his veins. 

“Besides, I’m cold at night and I was going to ask you eventually anyways,” Aziraphale said, twisting his hands so that he could give Crowley’s a reassuring squeeze. He stood, leaning down to give Crowley a kiss on the forehead before puttering off to the kitchen just beside the table. 

Crowley rested his chin on his palm, watching Aziraphale with what he knew was definitely an embarrassing lovesick expression. Well. It was whatever. He didn’t have the time anymore to be distant and suave. Not when he had Heaven and all it’s glories too right here with him. 

“Are you coming to bed? I have to finish some leather’s tomorrow, and I’d rather do it early in the morning so I have enough to collect enough firewood for a bath,” Aziraphale said, turning to Crowley. 

“A bath? But you just had one the other day,” Crowley complained. 

“It’s not for me, it’s for you. Especially since we’ll be sleeping together from now on,” Aziraphale said, reaching out and taking Crowley’s hand. Crowley shut up, wondering if he really had started to stink. Whatever worries he had was chased out of his mind as Aziraphale drew him into his bed. 

The two threadbare quilts they had weren’t enough, but in a tangle of limbs and hearts beating a little unsteady, they were warm enough for the night. 

Crowley woke up with a start, arms lashing out. His palm connected with something fleshy, and Aziraphale yelped. 

“Ouch! That was my face,” the angel groaned, shifting away from Crowley. 

“Sorry, sorry, bad dream,” Crowley said, jerking away from Aziraphale. He curled up on himself, cursing himself for hurting Aziraphale just when he was starting to allow him to get close. 

“I’ll sleep on the other bed. I’ll take some credit out at the general store tomorrow and get you a thicker blanket,” Crowley said. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, dear, everyone has bad dreams,” Aziraphale said, sitting up beside him. Aziraphale reached out, resting a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley stiffened, hating himself when Aziraphale drew his hand away. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Aziraphale asked, drawing the blanket up so it draped over Crowley’s shoulders. 

“No, not really,” Crowley said, taking deep breaths. The truth of the matter was that with Aziraphale there, he no longer had to worry. He had his fair share of nightmares as a demon and all, but most of them now featured losing Aziraphale. Crowley wished he had the courage to tell Aziraphale, but instead he forced himself to relax. He turned over, snaking an arm around Aziraphale’s waist and gently tugging him back into laying down beside him.

“Sorry about your face,” Crowley mumbled. 

“It’s no matter my dear, it didn’t even hurt,” Aziraphale said, kissing Crowley’s cheek. 

“You said ouch,” Crowley protested.

“It was a shock. I was asleep, I can’t be held accountable for what I say when I’m just woken up,” Aziraphale replied smoothly. 

“Liar,” Crowley muttered, burying his face into Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale chuckled, the sound deep like distant thunder in his chest. 

After that, Crowley was more careful about waking up. Not that he could control it logically, but Crowley was always one to put himself through unnecessary lengths. It also helped that he was gone for weeks at a time ranging through the hills for furs to bring home. 

Each time he came back from his excursions, Aziraphale had added something to the cabin. One week it was curtains, the next a fur blanket made out of a grizzly bear for their bed. They spoke little about the spring and moving on, but Crowley noticed that a corner of the cabin had begun to stack up with crates. He left Aziraphale to the business of their home and all that came with it. 

“The Martin’s have expressed interest in joining us on starting a new trapper town west of here,” Aziraphale said, having waited until Crowley took a massive bite of beef so he would have to consider what he said first. 

“They have a two year old,” Crowley said at last, gasping a little from swallowing the meat a little early to get his opinion out. 

“Eliza is strong, and she’s already had the pox and a majority of childhood diseases. She’s robust, and will be three before we set out anyways,” Aziraphale said. Crowley groaned. 

“They’re not like us, angel,” Crowley whined. 

“You mean we’re not like you,” Aziraphale said steadily. Crowley dropped his gaze, poking at the stew moodily. 

“Me being mortal cannot be helped, dear. Nor can we help the Martin’s. I want to be able to see you everyday, not every other week when the weather permits you to,” Aziraphale said. 

“How will endangering a three year old’s life be any help,” Crowley said moodily. 

“Joseph has offered to split the costs with us. Starting an entire town out in the wild takes resources Crowley, and I want to do it right the first time,” Aziraphale said. 

“This isn’t some grand adventure, you could die, and I don’t think I could take that so soon,” Crowley burst out, slamming his fork on the table. Aziraphale, to his credit, didn’t even flinch at his outburst.

“It is my life Crowley. And I want to live so well that when I leave, don’t look at me like that,  _ when I leave _ I will leave something behind for you to help foster until I pop up again,” Aziraphale said. 

“I’m a demon, Zira, I can’t lead a town. They might get suspicious that I’m not aging, humans are smart,” Crowley said. 

“Yes, and as a human, I know you’re capable of changing. As you said, you’re a demon Crowley. Start the lies now. Talk about your nephew and his son that’s the spitting image of you that you might one day pass the town over to. I know you’re capable of it-”

“I might be, yes, capable of a great many things. But have you ever considered I don’t give a damn?” Crowley growled. Aziraphale froze, taken aback. 

“I don’t want to live a life constantly reminded about the love of my life, a life where I am always chipping away at the centuries at the chance to see your face, to hear you say my name,” Crowley took a deep, shuddering breath “it’s not living, it’s mourning with no end.” 

Silence filled the room except for the crackling of the fire. Crowley focused on controlling his breath, hating that he was moments away from sobbing. It wasn’t demonic, it wasn’t even immortal. Unfortunately, Crowley felt painfully human.

“If that’s what I am to you, a painful reminder, then let me free you,” Aziraphale said at last. 

“What?” Crowley said.

“Anthony Crowley, as Aziraphale, the one you knew before and know now, I give you permission to let me go,” Aziraphale said. “Don’t look for me in the centuries to come. If they somehow reset it all, and we’re here again, I will certainly say the same. Let yourself live, my dear. Don’t let my memory haunt you so, it’s how they win.” 

With that Aziraphale rose, walking purposefully to the door. He grabbed his coat, drawing it upon his shoulders before Crowley could remember to move his feet. Crowley ran to him, grabbing his shoulder.

“I-I don’t want that, Zira, please,” Crowley begged. Aziraphale’s eyes turned flinty with his conviction. 

“I mean it. One of us is strong enough to break this Hell, and it was never going to be you,” Aziraphale said sharply. He tore his shoulder away, stepping out into the bitter November cold. 

“Aziraphale! Aziraphale!” Crowley screamed, following him out. His bare feet burned in the snow, each breath a poker of cold straight into his chest. 

Aziraphale strode ahead purposefully, right towards town. Crowley hesitated for half a second before darting back into the house. He tore on his jacket and threw on boots, lacing them as fast as his numbed up fingers would allow. He banked the fire before going, slamming the door in his wake.

The walk to the town was a long and lonely one. The longest in Crowley’s infinite memory of the world. Aziraphale’s tracks in the snow became muddled with the other townspeople’s, even though no one would be stupid enough to be out at this time of night. 

Crowley checked the general store, and then the tailor’s. Everywhere he searched, peering into windows and knocking when it came to it. It was sheer luck really that he finally found the Martin’s home. It was a cabin similar to theirs, at the exact opposite side of town. When he knocked on the door, he expected another disappointing answer.

Instead, a little girl that barely came up to his knee threw the door open. Her wide blue eyes quickly turned into ones full of malicious intent. Eliza, in all her two foot three fury, smacked Crowley’s knee. 

“You made Uncle Fell cry!” She scolded, glaring up at Crowley through blond curls.

“Yes, and my heart is all the worse for it,” Crowley told the child earnestly. Eliza frowned deeply for a moment, thinking about what he had said. 

“Who’s at the door, Liza bean?” A man called, peering a moment later around the crack in the door. Crowley glowered, wondering if everyone in the damned world had blue eyes like Aziraphale’s. 

“Uncle Fell’s friend,” Eliza said cheerfully, pointedly ignoring Crowley’s panicked hissing not to rat him out. 

“Ah, come all this way to apologize?” Eliza’s father said, a knowing look entering his eye. Crowley decided that he did not like Eliza’s father. He assumed too much. The man only stared at him expectantly, and Crowley was forced to duck his head a little in admission. 

“I promised him that I would turn you away, saying he wasn’t here, but…” The man sighed heavily, shaking his head. “Who am I to stay in the way of love?” 

“We’re not in love,” Crowley said grouchily. The man laughed, thoroughly sealing his fate on not being a part of Crowley and Aziraphale’s pioneerage. 

“He’s right over here by the fire, he’s helping my wife with a quilt,” Mr. Martin explained, making way for Crowley. Crowley stepped in, pausing a moment to take off his boots. For once he was glad that Aziraphale was such a stickler about small household things. Aziraphale was sitting by the fire as Mr. Martin had said, his head lowered as he worked through a difficult stitch. Mrs. Martin looked on approvingly, her face beautiful in that well worn way that would remain even in old age. 

“Zira,” Crowley said hesitantly, clearing his throat loudly. Aziraphale tossed a dirty glance his way before lowering his attention back to the quilt. 

“Aziraphale could we...could we talk, please?” Crowley asked, shifting from foot to foot nervously. 

“No, I’m helping Sarah with this block, but you can help Eliza with her letters,” Aziraphale said shortly. 

Crowley looked at Eliza, who looked back at him with a similar expression of wanting to be anywhere else but right there. 

“I don’t think Eliza would appreciate that,” Crowley said. 

“Oh, so you are aware of when you’re not wanted?” Aziraphale said innocently, stabbing the needle through the quilt piece. 

“Angel do we  _ have  _ to argue here?” Crowley asked, trying not to whine in front of these strangers. 

“No, we don’t. I don’t have anything to say to you, so have a nice walk home,” Aziraphale said. Crowley stood listlessly for a moment, trying to think of anything that would ply him away from his self-righteous stabbing of the quilt. 

“Alright, I’ll just, ah, leave my earnings back home for you. I guess I’ll...I’ll be seeing you,” Crowley finished awkwardly. He grabbed his boots by the door, yanking them on with the grace of someone who wished they were already twenty yards from where they currently were. He threw one last glance at Aziraphale before stepping back outside. Mr. Martin seemed disappointed by Crowley. He wished he could scream at him that things weren’t some romantic fairy tale with an excellent ending. If that were true, he would be the dragon, or the evil creature to be slain at the end. 

It was, in Crowley’s opinion, entirely selfish of him to continuously seek Aziraphale out and cause him such agony each lifetime. Aziraphale was always the one to put himself last. But truthfully, every time he threw himself into Aziraphale’s mortal lifespans, he inevitably encountered a rather ghastly fate. Perhaps it would be best for the two of them to steer clear of each other. Until...until Hell got bored and erased each of their memories. Or something along those lines. 

Crowley stayed a lonely night in the cabin, fully intending to disappear into the woods come morning. He got up early to pack his bags. Just as the weak dawn light fought its way through the iced windows, he confidently pushed on the front door that had opened many times before in the past. Except this time, it wouldn’t budge an inch. 

Crowley hated being trapped. It was part of why he always stayed above ground hanging with the humans before Armageddon. Now he felt that familiar tightness in his chest, and he tried to collect his thoughts. So maybe he was being punished for breaking the grand plan of Hell. That was fair. He paced the room for a few minutes before trying a window. It hesitated against Crowley’s full strength, before ponderously opening. He stared at the gigantic sheet of snow that greeted him. 

“Oh, for fuck sakes,” Crowley said, with as much feeling as he could muster. He shut the window again, building up the fire with what wood he had brought in from last night. He then picked up the nearest shovel-like thing he had in his possession, which was a frying pan. 

Physical labor is a rather good way to avoid thinking about much of anything. And Crowley had enough physical labor to deal with for a week. By the time that he was able to make it to town, albeit with snowshoes, it had been over that. It didn’t help matters that another blizzard moved in halfway through Crowley’s excavation project. He tried to remind himself that snow was good, it meant that Aziraphale was probably going to be cooped up with the Martin’s thinking about what had happened between them. 

He could only hope that his heart would thaw a little more with time. 

When Aziraphale finally did show up once more, it was not that winter. In fact, Crowley had abandoned the cabin in favor of long arduous trips into the wild. He became the local fur collector’s favorite hunter, mostly because he went out in weather that would’ve killed anyone else if they dared to attempt it. He grew his beard out, let his hair grow to the point that he kept it tied up in a bun half the time. 

He was just considering trimming his beard one mud-laden spring morning when a horse came up the way. It was a mild-mannered palomino that neighed cheerfully in greeting before Crowley could quite see it around the trees. Crowley decided to ignore the horse and whoever was riding in on it in favor of continuing to chop up firewood. There had been, unfortunately, a close call during the winter, and he had to end up using the table and the chairs as firewood. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale called loudly from around the house. Crowley ignored the jackhammering of his heart. He set the axe down and began to pick up chunks of firewood. He trusted himself not to reveal how nervous he was when picking up logs, an axe could easily fall on a foot, and then he would be injured and--

“There you are, I’ve missed you,” Aziraphale said, rounding the cabin. Crowley kept reminding himself that he absolutely did not care for what state Aziraphale was in. Besides, he had a horse. Crowley had all but decided that Aziraphale must have gotten himself a sugar daddy when he felt a hand on his shoulder. 

“What do you want?” Crowley spit out. He whirled around, ready to pick a fight. Aziraphale took a step back, eyes drawing back into a guarded expression. 

“You left, are you back to gloat about your life out west?” Crowley asked bitterly. Aziraphale gawked at him, as if he was the one being unreasonable. 

“No, dear, I came back to ask you to join me,” Aziraphale said, eyebrows knitting together like they always did when he was on one page and Crowley was three hundred back. 

“I don’t know what you mean. You left and I haven’t heard from you since then,” Crowley said, turning away. He continued picking up the logs, moving them to the side of the cabin as he went along. 

“Crowley, you’ve been sending me letters all this time,” Aziraphale said, sounding truly lost. Crowley froze. He got that sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that told him that he wasn’t in on the joke, and in fact, was really the butt of the joke all along. 

“How many letters have we...have we exchanged?” Crowley asked, clearing his throat. Automatically his hands continued to work on the woodpile, giving the rest of his body something to do while his brain had a meltdown. 

“Every week, two or three, even though I hadn’t responded,” Aziraphale admitted. “I had gone back to Boston, you know they won the war, right? I was just trying to get some loans for moving out west, and you started writing and, I dont know, I was so convinced and-”

“Let’s go out west together,” Crowley said, turning to him.

“Yes, that would be the plan,” Aziraphale said.

“Do you even know what we fought over?” Crowley asked.

“Over how to start the colony and...and my lover from England?” Aziraphale said slowly, as if Crowley was the one not getting it. 

“Oh, those rat bastards,” Crowley said, throwing as much feeling into each and every syllable. Distantly he heard the voice of Aziraphale, knew he was trying to get his attention. Crowley sat in the dirt and dug his fingers into his scalp, screaming all of his rage mentally right into Hell and all the demons that lived there. 

And in the end, he gave in to their desires. He brushed off his grief and took the bait in the form of a well-manicured hand. Together they traipsed into the west before settling down into the territory that would eventually become Michigan. Crowley and Aziraphale built a cabin together that first autumn, and through the winter the entire colony lost half the livestock.

They rebounded, as all humans tend to do. Crowley thought himself lucky, thought that if he was going to suffer, at least he was going to embrace every moment before it turned to nettles in his heart. 

Aziraphale, bless him, tried to hide the fact that he aged from Crowley. But there was no hiding the hardships of frontier life, especially in the winter. He began to cough, one that drew from deep in his chest and left him breathless. He brushed off Crowley’s worries, teasing him instead that perhaps Crowley was the one who was taking his life in order to remain so young and beautiful. 

It was a mercy that Aziraphale passed the way he did. Before Crowley had to watch him grow old and frail. It was tuberculosis that took him at last. Aziraphale had tried his best to hide the blood stains on his handkerchiefs, but like red flags they stuck stubbornly to the purity of their life together. The romantic disease, which was fitting. Limited by their seclusion, by the time period itself, Crowley was left to ease Aziraphale back into a long night where he would never be able to join him.

After that, Crowley swore off love for as long as this Hell would last. At first he didn’t rest, afraid they would find him. He followed the wagon trails to the west. Back again. Over, and over he went, crossing the land.

At some point, even the immortal must rest. 

“Who knew love was so fickle?” Beelzebub tutted, stabbing a nail into the underside of Crowley’s jaw. He tilted his head away from the pressure, refusing to wince. So this was what was awaiting him the entire time he stayed awake. 

“I meant what I said, duke, if I see him, I will run the other way,” Crowley said, thrashing in the restraints. Beelzebub sighed, drawing their hand away as they began to pace the small circular room. 

“That’s all well and good Mr. Crowley. We here in Hell do support free will of course. I wonder, will you be able to live with him suffering in your dreams, though?” Beelzebub said, catching Crowley’s eye so he would not miss the sinister grin on their face. 

“I don’t care, it isn’t Aziraphale, your bloody lot killed all the angels and now I’m here and you’ve just made him back up to make me suffer,” Crowley snapped. Beelzebub’s face screwed up in disgust before they kicked Crowley solidly in the shin.

“ _ Your  _ bloody lot, is it? I can’t even say you’ve gone native Crowley, because there’s no other side but  _ ours.”  _ They said. Crowley hissed at them, not wanting to speak anymore. Eventually he would have to wake up. That was the rule about mortal bodies. He had left his mortal form in good enough condition too, full of food and drink. 

“I suppose that we will just have to show you what will happen to your angel,” Beelzebub said, their face already morphing away with the dive of Crowley’s unconsciousness. Crowley desperately searched for a way to wake up, screaming at himself to move a leg, a finger, something, anything.

The first thing he recognized was his smell. Soft, heady, like a puff pastry fresh out of the oven, and the scent of wild strawberries just ripened in the sun. Crowley stopped fighting. If that was Aziraphale, if it truly was him, and this was  _ his  _ dream, then maybe they could figure out some way to stop all of this. 

Crowley allowed the new torment to fully manifest. He found himself in a long corridor with elegant tapestries. At the far end he spotted a hint of stairs descending far below into the depths. He heard a crowd roar its approval in the distance. Slowly, he inched his way alongside the tapestries, keeping to the shadows. 

“Zira?” Crowley called softly. The smell pulled him onwards, down the stairs. He knew where they were now, or what Hell had chosen for the two of them to exist in at the moment. Reign of Terror, Paris, France. Yes. Perhaps they were going to play a cruel joke and not let Crowley rescue Aziraphale. Not that that mattered. Not right now. They just needed to talk. 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley hissed, peering into the gloom of the cell. Not for the first time did he miss his demonic ability to see in the dark.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called hesitantly. The familiar rustle of chains. Crowley pressed against the chilled bars, desperate to see some sign of his angel. 

“It’s me, I can’t exactly see in the dark right now, they took my sight, but I’m here,” Crowley said, reaching into the darkness. Unbidden, a sob tore through him. Now that would be embarrassing, Aziraphale seeing him like this. 

“T-that’s better that you can’t see, I think,” Aziraphale said. Crowley pulled away, studying the bars for some way in. 

“Nonsense, I’ve seen it all angel,” Crowley said, wondering if he could break the door open with his fist. It was going to hurt like nothing else, but it was Hell, and they were fans of hurting Crowley at the moment. But a mangled hand was worth a stolen moment with Aziraphale. 

“No, you haven’t seen it all. Not with me like this,” Aziraphale said. 

“You’re starting to scare me. Just let me  _ see,”  _ Crowley said, pushing at the door experimentally. It hesitated, before pushing in with an eerie scream. 

“Please, if you see me now you’ll never think of anything else. That’s what they want, what those bastards are counting on,” Aziraphale said, voice turned desperate. Crowley paused. What had they done?

“If I don’t see you, my imagination will do much worse,” Crowley said with finality, striding into the darkness. All at once he nearly ran into Aziraphale. Aziraphale in his true form, with the spirals, the wings, the burning bands, the--

“Oh, Zira,” Crowley said softly. All hundred eyes were screwed up tight, except for several sockets that Aziraphale had desperately tried to turn from Crowley’s view. They had torn the angel’s eyes out, and messily too. 

“Every time I come back, they need a part of me,” Aziraphale said. Crowley reached out, ignoring the burning of his dream flesh. He didn’t care if he died from Aziraphale’s grace, what was left of it anyhow. That would be a fitting end. Maybe they’d let Aziraphale burn out once he was gone. There was no point in keeping him around after the fact. 

Instead, blessedly, his hand came to rest on Aziraphale’s cheek. And there it was, Aziraphale’s face that he had kept for six thousand years. His eyes were silvery with tears reflecting his grace back out.

“Crowley, my dear, I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale said. Crowley stubbornly scrubbed a tear away. 

“Sorry? I should be the one who’s sorry. They’re ripping bits of you off just. Just to get back at  _ me.” _

“It’s not so bad, if only that would be enough to keep you safe,” Aziraphale said. 

“If, if I could find a way to end it, end me or, or you maybe,” Crowley shook his head, unable to finish the train of thought. He felt Aziraphale’s fingers brush against his hand, gently taking his hand so he could press burning hot lips against Crowley’s palm.

“No, Crowley,” Crowley watched in awe as Aziraphale reached out, gently cupping Crowley’s chin under his. He leaned forward, lips brushing against Crowley’s. 

“You are the answer, my dearest, the answer,” Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley woke with a start, heart beating beating out of his chest. He thrashed wildly, reaching for Aziraphale in the pitch black. He felt a trace of heat on his lips, from the kiss. He touched them, felt the give of skin. Crowley tumbled out of bed, tearing through the drawers until he was able to pull out some scrap of metal that reflected just enough. No. No there was no sign of Aziraphale’s touch on his lips, nor anywhere else. Crowley allowed the instrument to slide to the floor. 

He leaned against the drawers, pushing a plant from its perch. He didn’t care to respond to the shattering of the pot, faintly wondered if he would care if he walked in the shards in the morning, already knew the answer would be no. Crowley ran a shaky hand through his hair. He was going to go mad if they started giving him Aziraphale in his dreams. Especially if they kept taking eyes like that, the goddamn bastards. 

Crowley dropped his hand and craned his head back as far as it could go. 

“Where did you go?” He whispered, staring at the wooden beams. He absently scratched at his palm, several painful moments passing as he slowly connected the dots that it was the palm that Aziraphale had kissed. Crowley nearly smacked himself in the face with the speed that he used to bring his hand to his face. 

He studied the map of his hand closely, disappointment building until he thought he would never get rid of the taste in his mouth. He was about to start throwing things, half-determined to carve his own momento of the kiss into his skin in a moment. But no. There, in the crook of what humans called their lifelines was a small freckle. He stared in wonder, turning his hand every which way in the limited light that the moon gave. Crowley never allowed himself to have freckles, when he was in charge of his corporeal form. Simply didn’t believe in them. Aziraphale had always mentioned that they were cute, but Crowley was too proud to add a few to his own skin. 

Unmistakably, undeniably, there was a freckle now. Small, unimportant, quite formless in fact. Crowley pressed his thumb into the mark, took it away and watched his skin regain its color. Still there. He scrubbed at it, first with his thumb, then a fingernail. And yet it persisted, stubbornly. 

Crowley supposed that it was a relief that he was cursed with a mortal form, as sleep crept up on him as he tried various methods to make sure that the freckle stayed blessedly secure on his skin. 

As Crowley finally collapsed into sleep as the first grey streaks of morning graced the windows, he kept his palm cupped against his cheek. As if he could transfer the kiss. Transfer Aziraphale to his bed and in his embrace, where no one could ever harm him again. 


End file.
